


Carousel

by tapioca_two_step



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Frisk is definitely not a child, Gen, Heartbreak, Sans Remembers Resets, Sans is a little crazy in this one, Sans puts Frisk in a world of hurt, Sans saves the Underground, but then again so is Frisk, it's totally okay to kiss the person you're killing, references of naughty stuff, that's not blood it's determination
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-30
Updated: 2016-09-30
Packaged: 2018-08-18 15:23:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8166634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tapioca_two_step/pseuds/tapioca_two_step
Summary: It takes a lot of mental fortitude to kill his best friend over and over again. Sometimes he does it for fun. Sometimes he does it for love. A story about the last corridor and the thread-thin ties that bind souls together.





	

There's something about the end of the world that makes Sans wish he had appreciated the little things in his life a little bit more. Eating at Grillby's with Papyrus, the cold crunch of snow under his slippers as he followed his brother through the Snowdin woods on their puzzle rotation, sleeping in on weekends and taking long lunch breaks at work--honestly, he used to think that those days would go on forever.  
  
But now, if he is sure of anything, it is that Frisk is the maker and breaker of the ties in his life, and if he has little things to appreciate in the first place it is because she has deigned to allow him to experience them.  
  
Well, no, that isn't it. It's just that, her every step determines his. She is his compass. She knows it. So does he.  
  
They are so familiar with their dance that they've memorized all the patterns by now. It's a butterfly effect of maddening depths, and sometimes he thinks he's already crazy, the way he knows her. The pressure of their hands when they greet each other outside the Ruins, how big of a bite they each take out of their burgers at Grillby's, even how wide Frisk smiles at his jokes--everything is telling. How much love she'll gain this time around. How much mercy she'll show.  
  
How much she'll hurt them all in the end.  
  
King Asgore holds six human souls captive and can only reliably be counted on to make good-tasting tea.  
  
Frisk carries within her fragile human body enough Determination to save the world or turn it to dust.  
  
And Sans absolutely _hates_ her for it. 

* * *

  
She looks beautiful in the sunlight. Something about the warmth of it touches her skin in a way that makes her usually pallid skin practically glow. It gives her chestnut hair a halo and shows him just how pink her lips are, how bright her eyes, how red her blood. It makes her look almost human.  
  
But this time around, he knows better.  
  
She comes at him. _Fuck_ , she's fast. He's barely got time to duck as the blade comes slashing towards him. He sees his reflection in the metal. His eye glows with the colors of justice and patience, but he looks as hopeless as he feels.     
  
He gives her no quarter, throwing everything he's got at her, almost salivating at the thought of seeing her blood paint the walls, and in return she wields her knife as lightly and easily as if she was born with it in her hand. She makes the air sing with the speed of her slashes and every strike is almost the last one. She kicks. She punches. She fights dirty. So does he.  
  
It's just like when they have sex.  
  
The pillars crumble when he throws her body through them. Bones pulverize the patterned marble floor, embedded in some places like a grotesque fence. The windows shatter and they both slip on the shards of glass as they dodge each others' blows. Outside, the birds are still singing.  
  
He manages to get on top of her, pinning her arms to the floor so hard that he hears her bones creak underneath his hands. It's hard to keep her still, but he knows how her body moves and moves with her, always keeping his weight squarely above hers. His eye burns blue, and all he has to do is tilt his head to the side and allow the hard white shaft of bone to lance from over his shoulder and pierce through Frisk's heaving chest.  
  
She makes an incredulous sound and her eyes grow wide and bright. He keeps his eyes locked on hers, allowing her coppery breath to wash over his face in short puffs. She breathes like this when she's excited, and her pupils expand like this whenever she sees something she covets.  
  
Some part of him is pleased that it still happens when she looks at him.  
  
The bone disappears. A wash of blood gushes across her neck and down her shoulders. Her skin blanches white as bone, and the sudden light in her eyes goes out.  
  
Her fingers open. The knife falls.  
  
He is left alone on the floor of the hall, and his heart is empty, and the world rewinds.  
  


* * *

  
She's a little more careless this time around. A Gaster Blaster catches her mid-dodge and sears the skin off of her back as if she's made of paper. Her resulting scream is raw and furious--she can't believe she's made such a stupid mistake so early on.  
  
"you know what they say," he teases as she stands there, shivering in her agony. "if you can't stand the heat--"  
  
She doesn't give him the chance to finish. He didn't expect her to. She darts towards him, her feet barely touching the floor. The knife shears off a bit of fluff from the collar of his jacket. This close to her, he can smell her charred flesh. Only a few ragged threads are keeping her shirt together. He can count the bumps of her spine. He used to do it when they were together. She'd be on her stomach in the bed, her shirt discarded somewhere on the floor, and he'd be propped up on one elbow next to her, slowly dragging his finger down each each vertebra.  
  
He doesn't remember when they first became...involved. He doesn't even remember what first set the spark. He thought, perhaps, that his thinly veiled hatred of her suddenly shifted, as strong feelings often do, into lust. That must've been it. He hated her so much that he began to want to hurt her. One timeline they were telling jokes bad enough to make Papyrus move in with Undyne for a few days and the next they were fucking hard enough to, well, make Papyrus move in with Undyne for a few more.  
  
Seriously, it was all or nothing with that kid.  
  
And damn if she didn't like it.

Damn if _he_ didn't _love_ it.  
  
"i see you still can't keep your clothes on when you're around me," he remarks casually as he almost lazily swings an arm in her direction. A rain of bones follows his aim, each one slamming into the ground like a lightning bolt as she backpedals out of the way with alarming nimbleness. She throws herself behind a pillar, using it for cover. He annihilates it with another Gaster beam and she merely ducks and dives behind the next one.  
  
She doesn't heal. The gleam of her soul is weak and fluttering, an ember in dire risk of going out. She won't win this one, and they both know it.  
  
This doesn't stop her from making it hard for him.  
  
And not in the way he likes.  
  
"mustard," he calls to her, when he's finally managed to drive her to the other end of the hall. Their safe word--used often enough, given the volatile nature of their couplings--echoes across the ruined battlefield, and Frisk blinks in recognition. Her smile is sickening. She takes a step forward and blood squishes in her boot.  
  
"c'mon, kid, you've gotta remember," he pants, only half joking. Sweat slides down his skull. "i don't have as much stamina for this kind of stuff as you do."  
  
Skin on bone. Up against a tree in the middle of the night, the stalactites sparkling overhead and the air bitterly cold. Pulling her shirt up, memorizing the feel of her skin under his fingertips. Her body burned him. He could never enough of it.  
  
"Don't worry," Frisk laughs through the blood in her mouth. "She does."  
  
The word sends a jolt through him.  
  
"A few teasing touches at the bar," Frisk's voice continues. "A warm hand in yours. Soft lips against your neck. Aww." Her giggle stutters on a grunt of pain, but the fake smile still twists her lips. "You two really loved each other, didn't ya?"  
  
She brings the knife to her mouth. Presses her lips to it. Runs her tongue over its razor edge.  
  
"T o o f u c k i n g b a d," she says.      
  
Suddenly he can't stand hearing her speak.  
  
He makes sure her next mistake is her last.  
  


* * *

  
He's already angry when she steps into the light. Amazingly, she seems unwilling to fight, which only infuriates him more. He cuts his spiel short this time, and after the first bone draws a line of blood across her cheek, her expression hardens. The battle is on.  
  
He goes first. He always does. She looks almost bored as she dodges, almost playful as she watches her soul turn blue, almost happy as she gets close enough to him to strike.  
  
He's never wondered if they were ever truly friends, because he knows they were. He can't recall a single happy memory that doesn't feature her blithe face, her mild smile, her tiny shadow next to his. Watching movies with Papyrus on the couch, trying recipes from Mettaton's cooking show, doing puzzles and crosswords on snowy days--she'd proven to everyone that humans weren't the barbarians that that monsters thought they were. She'd been a beacon of hope.

She's been _his_ beacon of hope.  
  
And then she'd gone into the Throne Room, ages of resets before, and she'd never come back the same.  
  
She does something stupid and throws the knife at him. He dodges, scoffing, and forms a platform of bone under her feet that flips her into the air like a pancake. She actually takes the opportunity while she's airborne to pull a monster candy out of her pocket and unwrap it. A trap of bones is waiting for her when she lands, but he must not have packed them closely enough, because she lands neatly between two of them and pops the candy into her mouth. She licks her pink lips and Sans grits his teeth.  
  
"Please, Sans, baby," she says, catching the bottom of her shirt and teasing it up her torso. Her stomach sports a gash that partially exposes a rib. She lifts more, and more, until he can see the lower curve of her breasts. "Mercy." The word is spoken on a sneer.

When they fuck, he is always in control. He works his will upon her and she takes it, helpless under him, waiting to see what he'll do. 

It's the only time when he's in charge of his own life.

And she's _mocking_ him over it.  
  
He takes one step and teleports, stepping out of the air directly in front of her. His fingers wrap around her throat and start to squeeze. The knife is in his face before he can blink, the tip just starting to dig into his forehead before a bone crashes into her arm, knocking it and the knife aside.  
  
"Sans," she chokes, her face turning purple.  
  
He doesn't listen. His jaws open and he clamps his teeth around her shoulder in a vicious bite. She wails in his ear as he feels her muscles tear. Warmth pours into his mouth and he swallows it, snarling, "don't. ever. say my name. again."  
  
Her hands clutch at his jacket and push at his shoulders. She gets really grabby when she's worked up. She tries to kick him off. Sans smashes a bone across her femurs and feels her scream try to push its way past the grip he's got on her throat. She tries to get air.  
  
She fails.  
  
Sans waits for the reload with her blood still in his mouth.  
  
He can still taste it when he wakes up again. 

* * *

  
They'd had an hours-long snowball fight once, and Frisk had thrown one so perfectly that it had landed squarely in his eye socket. She'd been so breathless with laughter that he'd had to carry her most of the way home. Then, when it was discovered that the cold air had worsened the cough she'd had into near pneumonia, he'd spent the rest of the evening manhandling her from the kitchen (force-feeding her soup) to the bathroom (force-bathing her while trying to hide his boner) to the bedroom (force-bedding her in a totally unsexual way). It had reminded him of taking care of Papyrus when he was younger.  
  
"You're stronger than you look," she'd whispered to him as he'd tucked her in.  
  
_Well, now you know,_ he thinks, as she steps into the last corridor once more.  
  
Up comes his hand, and his eye flashes like a firework. He dimly hears her gasp as her soul turns blue. He flings her into the wall, the floor, the ceiling arching overhead. He sends her through a pillar and she skids across the floor with the rest of the rubble. She leaves a crimson handprint on the floor when she pushes herself back to her feet.  
  
But Sans isn't done. His magic is clamped around her body in a death grip and he's not letting go. She's his. Her body is just so light. It takes some work to hoist her but once she's in the air he can keep her there for ages. She breaks like glass. There's nothing to her.  
  
So why-- _why_ \--  
  
His chest is burning when he finally sweeps his hand down and sends Frisk plummeting. She looks crushed when she lands. He's almost impressed when her hand twitches and forms a fist. Her arms flex. She tries to rise.  
  
He doesn't let her back straighten.  
  
One, two, three bones flicker above her, and she can only watch as they slam into her, pinning her down like a butterfly to a board. She fixes a look of hatred on him that almost--almost--matches the feeling he has for her. Hands in his pockets, he strolls over to her, watching passively as her red human blood spreads across the floor. She is on her back, unable to move. Her pulse flutters in her throat.  
  
The birds are singing.  
  
"how's it feel?" he asks quietly. "hm? you like being at somebody else's command? you like being a puppet?"  
  
She says something he can't quite hear. He bends at the waist, practically standing over her, an animal protecting its kill. "come again?"  
  
"...I already...am."  
  
The words--gentle, bitter--strike him like blows. The anger drains out of him so quickly it leaves his knees weak.    
  
He won't listen to that kind of talk. She's free from that kind of servitude. She's not riding the carousel, she's the one determining how fast it goes, and who gets to ride it until the very end.  
  
She's got to be.  
  
Because if she isn't...  
  
"get out of here with that noise," he says. He tries to laugh but it gets stuck in his throat. Frisk suddenly looks so pathetically small, pinned to the ground in her own pool of blood. Her hair is stuck to her face with sweat and the look in her eyes is almost innocent. Even as he watches, her soul rises from her body like a little crimson sun.  
  
After a pause, he lifts his foot and poises it over the glowing heart. Frisk takes a deep breath. He hears himself say, "you're the one with the knife. why don't you cut the strings yourself?"  
  
He doesn't want to think about it any more.  
  
He brings his foot down.  
  
The timeline resets.  
  


* * *

  
They bring each other to the brink of death.  
  
Both out of breath. Both drenched with sweat. The knife wavers in Frisk's shaking fingers. Sans couldn't even lift a bottle of ketchup at this point.  
  
He might as well say it.  
  
"aren't you tired of this yet?" His voice is surprisingly strong.  
  
She doesn't answer, instead looking at him cautiously. She blinks. Blood slides across her eyelid and down her cheek.  
  
"you've got to be. we've been here long enough, don't you think?"  
  
One of her bloodied shoulders rises and falls in a small shrug.  
  
His eyes narrow, but his smile stays the same. "you're not taking this seriously," he says. "you make no sense. the path you keep walking. the choices you make. the same damn ones, over and over. what are you looking for? what's the point?"  
  
She is silent.    
  
He keeps smiling. "let me guess. killing Toriel and Alphys and P...Papyrus and everyone was just something you did to pass the time? reloading this save in particular so you can get yourself killed just sounded like something fun to do?  
  
"i gotta hand it to you, kid. that's r e a l l y messed up."  
  
He remembers kissing her.  
  
He remembers killing her.  
  
"who are you?" he asks, and it's then that his voice breaks, just a little. "who am i?"  
  
_Wrap your hands around her neck and break it._  
  
_Wrap her legs around your waist and break her._  
  
_Either way..._  
  
_...she's got you right where she wants you._  
  
His sigh is one of utter defeat. "what am I saying?" he asks himself. "i'm talking to you like you're a human, and you're not. you're not even trying, are you? you keep coming back just to die. and anybody with that much Determination in 'em...." He shrugs. "i know you're just playing with me. you like watching the carousel goin' around and around, don't you? and far be it from me to stop a friend of mine from laughing--hell, i'll even keep telling jokes. there's just one problem. i'm tired of the ride."  
  
He holds his jacketed arms out to his sides, a perfect gesture of defeat. "i got nothin' else for ya, kid. go on. i'm done."  
  
He's not even done talking when her knife clatters to the floor. The sound is sharp in the empty air.  
  
The birds have stopped singing.  
  
Sans looks at the blade on the ground and then up at Frisk's face.  
  
"Mustard," she says simply.  
  
He doesn't know what to say. Finally, finally, she's accepted his offer of mercy.  
  
And then she leaps forward and crushes him into a hug.  
  
At first, he doesn't react. It's been so long since he's had physical contact with her body that she feels foreign against his bones. Too warm. Too soft. Too human.  
  
He can't move.  
  
"Sans."  
  
Her face is buried in the furred ruff of his jacket, her arms locking around his ribcage. Something snaps inside of him and his arms go around her, protective, tight, desperate. He holds her just as tightly, rocking her a little, making soft shushing noises. She's soaked with blood. He feels it soaking into his shirt, staining his ribcage.  
  
"Trying--trying," she babbles weakly, shivering. "I hate this. I hate it. I just can't seem to cut the strings. I can't always see them."  
  
_She's not a puppet. She's not a puppet. She's not a f u c k i n g  p u p p e t--_  
  
"I won't let them destroy everything," she continues. "No matter--how many times. I'll get that knife out of their hands."  
  
“’s okay, kid,” he mutters the empty words into her hair. “i know."  
   
\--just before he drives a bone through her heart.  
  
At first, it looks like she can’t tell what happened. It’s only when her hand wanders to her torso that her expression shows that she knows she's been wounded.  
   
She pushes away from Sans, searching his face. He’s looking at something—or perhaps nothing—over her shoulder, his eye sockets empty of light.  
  
"Sans?" she asks. Warmth pushes up her throat and the taste of copper fills her mouth.  
  
“kid—“ he begins, and the agony in his voice makes her take a breath that she quickly aborts. Sans suddenly squeezes her closer, and fire blooms in her chest as the movement pushes the bone in even more. She can only gasp through it.  
  
“kid,” Sans says again. His voice is muffled in her shoulder. “you’re killing me.”  
   
She doesn't answer. Her knees fold underneath her, and Sans sinks to the floor with her, pulling her into his lap. He props her against him, her back to his chest. He’s shaking.  
  
Her soul rises from her body. Sans, desolate, watches it. How many more times does he have to go through this? How many more times does she--  
  
“Isn’t it pretty?” she manages to say. When Sans meets her eyes, she gives him a weary smile.  
  
“yeah,” he says raggedly. “it was.”  
  
She takes her next breath knowing it will be her last. "I'll...try harder next time, okay?"  
  
_Next time._  
  
She can feel his tears on her face but she can’t move her arms to wipe them from his eyes. Together, they watch her soul on its slow ascent, flickering like a distant star.  
  
And when it breaks to pieces, so does Sans.  
  


* * *

  
It's next time.  
  
As usual, he finds himself pacing the marble floor in the last corridor, making shadow puppets on the walls, humming absentmindedly as he waits for Frisk to make her way to him.  
  
As usual, she looks beautiful in the sunlight. He takes a moment to admire her shining hair, her smiling mouth, her burning soul. She marches right up to him and he allows it, enjoying the swing of her hips as she walks.  
  
"well?" he asks when she does nothing but stare into his burning blue eye. "find all those strings yet?"  
  
Her answer comes in the form of pulling something shining out from behind her back--  
  
_Shit shit shit shit shit_ \--  
  
She's in his face, her smile a white slash in her face, and he draws his power in to form a Gaster Blaster, but he's too late. She shoves him backwards and he lands heavily on his back. In an instant she's sitting on his chest, the knife raised high above her head.  
  
"How do you introduce yourself if you're new to the cutlery drawer?" she asks him, even as a giant skull materializes out of the air behind her. Blue light glows behind its jaws as her arm comes slashing down. She stabs him in the eye socket.  
  
"Knife to meet you!" she crows.  
  
It's made of f u c k i n g rubber.  
  
He's got no time. He wraps his arms around her and teleports away as the Gaster Blaster unleashes its beam. They end up only feet away, and he curls his body around hers to protect her from the heat of the blast until it dissipates. He can feel her laughing into his neck.    
  
He pulls away from her, speechless. Frisk's face is pink with anticipation, her eyes searching his, her lower lip caught in her teeth.  
  
"You would not believe how long I've waited to tell that one," she says.  
  
He remembers hating her.  
  
He remembers loving her.  
  
"are you braindead?!" he suddenly roars, jumping to his feet. "i almost KILLED you!"  
  
"Wouldn't be the first time," she says primly, sitting up. He winces, but she begins laughing. "Um, ah, you've got a little something--" She taps her cheek, just under her eye.  
  
Sans reaches up. He's still got the damn knife sticking out of his face. With a snarl, he grabs the handle and chucks it at her. She swats it away and scrambles to her feet, taking off down the corridor towards the Throne Room.  
  
"Oh, no!" she screeches. "Sans is on a rampage again!"  
  
"you haven't seen anything yet," he retorts. "get your ass back here."  
  
She stops mid-step and actually spanks herself. "Make me," she says, a wicked look in her eyes.  
  
Sans' breath catches in his chest. How does she do this to him? How can he love her so much after hating her for so long? How can she think she's not in control when she's got him lost in her? She said she didn't know where all the strings were, but he's known all along. They trail from her hands to his heart.  
  
He doesn't know how long the carousel will keep going around.  
  
He doesn't know how Frisk will come back if she doesn't succeed in breaking the Barrier this time.  
  
All he knows is he's tied to her, and everywhere she goes, he'll go too.  
  
He shakes his head to clear his thoughts and grins lecherously at his captor. "i intend to," he tells her, right before he vanishes.  
  
Frisk shrieks laughter and runs.  
  
The last corridor is empty.  
  
The birds are singing.  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Eh. Is this a character study? I guess I wanted to explore Sans and Frisk's relationship but it kind of turned into this mess. I can see them doing a lot of hate-boning so sorry if the sexual parts seem kind of excessive? Honestly they're both pretty OOC. Even so, I hope you enjoyed it. :3  
> Also lol the sudden fluff at the end, what the heck.


End file.
